


In the Ruins of Winter

by Silverheart



Category: Kingdoms of Amalur
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:11:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverheart/pseuds/Silverheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first time, what was, would not be again.  Cydan after the defeat of Tirnoch and Gadflow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Ruins of Winter

The Winter Court is a ruined and bitter sight.

Bitterness is a part of Winter. Perhaps he should start a new house, the House of Bitterness, and they will call him Cydan the Bitter King.

“Pah!” he exclaims aloud. The sound echoes alone through the forest of Prismere spikes. Thinking like that reminds him of Gadflow, of how he had transformed decay and sterility into hate.

Cydan is the King of Winter, now (shall they call him Mathon?) and he will not allow the Unseelie room to become…that…again.

The Prismere must be brought down, first, if possible. He no longer senses that presence in it, though it holds power still. The crystal is no longer living. That doesn’t mean the wounds can heal. Alabastra might well bear the mark of Tirnoch forever.

Still. He must try. Impossible is a meaningless term now. He was never fated to win. Yet here he was.

Mortals will take the Prismere for their foolish ends, if he allows it. They will descend in a swarm, clearing away the wicked crystal like maggots eat away dead flesh. Yes, that will do.

The clans of Ashmoor and Eventide live, as does the House of Pride. Sorrows—the House of Sorrows had perished. Perhaps he should have…ah, _regrets_ , not as much to his taste as secrets. He would have died with them, he knows.  He will no longer spare a thought for Fate.

“Cydan.” He turns to see Esha of the Ashmoor waiting. There’s an _impatience_ to her stance, a _tenseness_ in her shoulders—none of it a Fae way of being. Cydan sighs. Gadflow had changed all of the Winter Court, some in ways worse than others, but none untouched.

“Did the mortals listen?”

Something flashes in her eyes, a proper Fae rage. Some hope in that. “A group of them goes to burn their dead in the Midden.”

“That is near to listening.” They could—would have to—set the whole Midden aflame, but the Gallows Tree would emerge unharmed, he knows. Well, scorched, but alive.

If he wants to go into metaphors for their situation, there is no shortage of opportunities.

“You may go and hunt the Tuatha. Put them out of our misery.” She bows and obeys, leaving Cydan to look out over where the Bonewhite Forest once stood, pure and serene, replaced now with a tangle of jagged Prismere.

For the first time, what was, would not be again. The rotten flesh would have to be picked away, and what was forged out of the bones would not be the same.

Cydan leans against a rail, and watches as the first snowflake of a new winter falls upon the ruins of the Unseelie Fae.


End file.
